


I'll Be Home for Christmas

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:12:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first year in a new country is just the time for new traditions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Orockthro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orockthro/gifts).



Napoleon Solo took a sip of wine and decided it would do just fine for his dish. The rule of thumb was that you never cooked with a wine you wouldn’t drink.  While the Fontan Candida Frascati was a bit crisp for his taste, it was perfect for this dish.  He adjusted the heat beneath the pan of scallops and added a healthy dollop of white wine.  Then he tossed in the shallots and garlic and let the whole thing simmer for five minutes, no longer or he’d have little erasers instead of tender scallops.

It was good to have a night home. Since joining UNCLE, Napoleon’s time had not been his own.  Of course, before his keepers, the CIA, kept him on a tight rein as well.  He was either at their beck and call or they’d see him incarcerated for past ‘indelicacies’ as he preferred to think of them.  After all, a man had to eat.

He quickly buttered six large scallop shells and arranged them on a large sheet pan. His internal timer popped off and he removed the skillet from the heat and spooned the mixture in.  Sprinkling it with Swiss cheese, he stuck the sheet pan beneath the broiler.  Just three or four minutes would melt the cheese and brown it lightly, then he’d be ready to eat.

Napoleon carried his glass to the table and sighed contentedly as the aroma of the baking cheese filled the room. As much as he loved his partners, it was nice to have some time alone.  While Gaby was charming as well as a cunning and skillful agent, she reminded Napoleon of a perpetual motion machine.  She was always moving and quite frankly, Napoleon was exhausted trying to keep up with her.  Then there was the Russian.  Napoleon smiled at the thought of Illya Kuryakin or Peril, as in the Red Peril, as Napoleon preferred.  Having Illya around was like living with a stick of dynamite in your back pocket.  Helpful in tight situations, but one had to watch one’s ass or the Russian would take it clean off for very little reason. 

Grabbing a potholder, he pulled the tray from the oven and carefully placed two of the shells on his plate. Carrying it to the table, he poured some wine, sat down and nodded as there was a loud knock on his door.

“So much for an evening alone,” he murmured to his reflection. He checked his hair and then walked quickly to the door.  A check out the peep hole revealed just the top of Gaby’s head.

“Good evening, my sweet,” he said opening the door. Gaby walked in without a word. “Uh, would you like to join me for dinner?”

“No, thanks.” Gaby walked to the table and sat down.

“All right, then come in.” Napoleon returned to his seat and was about to take a bite when a spoon snaked in and stole a taste of his Coquille St. Jacques.  “Well, do feel free to join me, then.” 

“I’m not hungry. We have a problem, Napoleon.”

“We currently have several problems, Gaby. Which one are you referring to?” He poured her a glass of wine and refilled his glass.

Gaby took another spoonful of scallops and cream and Napoleon got up and fixed a plate for himself. Then just on the off chance, he arranged a third plate and carried them to the table.

“This is great, Napoleon. When did you learn to cook like this?”

“One isn’t a savage just because of a sticky finger or two. I like the good life and fine cuisine is part of that.  However, I wasn’t always in the best of situations to go out to dine, so I learned to make do.”  He set the plates down and tried again.  “Now what is the problem?”

“Huh? Oh, it’s Illya.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Napoleon sampled his plate and nodded happily.   _It was perfect_ “What’s wrong this time?  Someone insult his father or try to sleep with his mother?”

“Napoleon! Have some sympathy.  He’s had a hard life.”

“He breaks cars with his bare hands. I’d say it’s the people who know him who are having a hard life.” 

“Not funny. Napoleon, he knows nothing about Christmas.”

“He’s Russian, Gaby.”

“So? They have Christmas in Russian, it’s in January, though.

“Men like Kuryakin do not celebrate Christmas.”

“But he’s with us now, here in America.”

“You can’t shovel a holiday down someone’s throat. Either they observe or they don’t.  It depends upon their past.”

“Do you celebrate Christmas?”

“I celebrate good will to men.” He waggled his eyebrows. “And women.”

“Napoleon, I’m being serious.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“Not exactly.” Gaby finished her second shell and looked longingly over at Napoleon’s plate.

“Ask him, Gaby. Ask him what he’d like for Christmas.  He might surprise you.”  There was a less-than-subtle pounding on his door and Napoleon sighed.  “I knew it.  Come in, Peril.  It’s open.”

“You are careless, Cowboy.” Illya filled the doorway.  There wasn’t a part of the man that wasn’t toned and muscled to an inch of its life.  Yet he carried an aura of Little Boy Lost with him.  He simply didn’t look as dangerous as he was.  It was Illya’s greatest asset.

“When I have such friends around me, I feel well protected.”

“Where is…?” He spotted Gaby.  “Oh, you are here.”

Napoleon’s mouth twisted into a half grin. “Yes, eating my Coquille St. Jacques and drinking my wine.”

“Your vhat?” Illya’s accent came out every now and again, just to remind people that of his heritage.  A weaker man might try to hide it, but the last thing Illya was weak.  “That sounds… suggestive.”

“It’s a dish made with scallops, cream, wine and cheese.”

“It is not Russian.”

“No, it’s French, but if I’d known you were coming I’d have made borscht.” 

That made Illya pause in mid stride. “You make borscht?”

“Like your grandmother did.”

“I highly doubt that.” He took the seat Napoleon offered him and inspected the dish.

“If you don’t want it, I suspect Gaby will take it off your hands.”

“Hell, yes.” Gaby grinned.  “It’s very good.”

Illya poked his fork into the middle of the dish and brought the fork full eye level. After a moment, he put it in his mouth and chewed.  “It is good.”

“And again I am cut to the quick by your surprise.” Napoleon poured him some wine and offered the bottle to Gaby.  She nearly took a swig from it, then laughed at the look on Napoleon’s face.

“Kidding.” She topped off her glass and passed it back.

Illya took another bite and chewed slowly, obviously savoring the taste. “What were you talking about?”

“Well, not to put too fine a point on it – you.”

“Me?” Illya’s tone grew wary and his eyes narrowed.  A vein throbbed in his temple and Napoleon had to act fast.

“We’re trying to make Christmas plans and were wondering when you would be available.”

“For?”

“A Christmas party, here Christmas Eve.”

“I am not Christian.”

“Considered it a jump on _Е́же по пло́ти Рождество Господа Бога и Спа́са нашего Иисуса Христа.”_   Napoleon rattled the words off his tongue, hiding his smile.  Trust the Russian to forget that Napoleon spoke Russian, albeit with a terrible accent.

“Aw, I can’t.” Gaby’s tone was nothing but disappointed.  “But you two should.”

“Absolutely. What do you say, Peril?”

“I don’t know.” Illya took a deep breath, then looked down at his near empty plate.  “You will have more of this?”  He slapped Gaby’s hand away as she tried to sneak in for the last bite.  She looked mock hurt back at him and batted her eyelashes.  With another sigh, Illya pushed the plate to her.

“Well, maybe not that, but there will be food and drink and I promise not to make you endure the exploits of Rudolph and Frosty.”

“Who? Are they THRUSH?”  There was an eager edge to Illya’s voice.  He was a man happiest while on the hunt.

“Worst. They are Christmas icons.”  Napoleon stood and walked to his wall calendar.  “How about six.”

“Seven would be better,” Illya said.

“Excellent. As they say here in the States, I will pencil you in.”

 

                                                                                *****

Napoleon took a step back and regarded the Christmas tree. It had been years since he’d decorated one, but the same principle that applied to riding a bike apparently applied to Christmas trees.  He stole a quick glance at his watch and returned to the kitchen.

He’d found the borscht recipe years ago, but for one reason or another, he’d never used it yet always held onto it. _Someone must have known I’d end up with a Russian partner_ he thought as he tasted it. 

In the oven, the duck was gently warming and the baked apples were split and spilling their filling all over the pan, scenting the room with the aroma of apple and cinnamon.

 _Now if Peril is good to his word…_ Otherwise, he’d be eating duck for a week.

The minute hand pointed straight up when there came a brisk business like rap to his door. It was Illya’s knock, but Napoleon still exercised caution and used the peep hole.

Dressed his usual black turtleneck and brown leather jacket, Illya stared back.

“Well, at least you left your hat at home.” For some reason, Illya’s cap annoyed Napoleon’s fashion sense.

Illya held it up and Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Should have known.” He stepped aside.  “Come on in, everything’s ready.”

“Where do I put this?” Illya held up a bottle of wine.  “And these?”  He carried a shopping bag of brightly colored packages.

“I will take the wine and you can put the presents under the tree.” Napoleon took the wine to the table and opened it to let the zinfandel breathe.  Napoleon never gave that old custom of never serving a guest’s wine much credit.   With all of his faults, Illya did have good taste in wine.  “This will go well with our main course.  How was the drive over?  Has the snow stopped?”

When Illya didn’t answer, Napoleon retraced his footsteps to the living room. Illya was standing, still clutching the bag, staring at the tree.  The fingers of one hand touched the ornaments as if he wasn’t sure they were real.  The lights gave his face a soft glow and then he looked back at Napoleon, a smile on his face.  That had made all the hassle and expense of getting the tree and decorating it worth the effort.  Very rarely did Illya smile with such unguarded enthusiasm.

“Did you say something?” Illya murmured, as if afraid his voice would break the spell.

“Not anything of importance.” Napoleon grinned back and went to the wet bar.  He gave the martini shaker one more shake and poured equal amounts into chilled glasses.  He carried them carefully back to Illya and offered one.  “ _Выпьем за то, чтобы у нас всегда был повод для праздника_ (May we always have a reason to party)!”

“ _За здоровье_ _(_ To your health)!” Illya touched the rim of his glass to Napoleon’s and returned his attention to the evergreen.

“Your first Christmas tree?” Napoleon settled on the couch.

“Yes, its smell reminds me of being a boy and visiting my grandparents. They had a small dacha outside of Moscow.  I would spend hours in the woods.”

Napoleon took a deep breath and nodded. “It is fragrant.  I’ve missed that.”

“You do not always have a tree?” Without looking away, Illya found his way to the couch.

“I can’t think of a time where I stayed in one place long enough. Still, it seemed to be necessary this year.”

“Why?”

“It’s your first Christmas in America, Illya. It’s tradition.”

“You did this for me?”

“Yup, well, I suspect Gaby will enjoy it as well.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. And if you like that, wait until you see what’s on the table.”

 

                                                                                ****

Napoleon undid his belt and sighed. “I ate way too much.”

“It was good.” Illya was still eating, finishing off his third roll.  “I agree with Gaby, you are a good cook.”  He lifted his glass in a toast and drained his cup.

“More wine or would you rather move on to something of after dinner worthiness?” Napoleon gestured to the wet bar.  “I have brandy, Grand Marnier, Grappa…”

“As an after dinner drink?”

“Some folks like it. I prefer a nice tawny port myself.”

“Then that will serve me as well.” Illya pushed back from the table.  “That was very good, Cowboy.   And for the record, the borscht was very good, perhaps even a bit better than my grandmother’s.”  Again a shy smile snuck out.

“Well, I imagine she didn’t have a corner market that she could pop into if she needed something.”

Illya’s eyes grew distant and a little sad. “No, many times it was more of a watery cabbage broth, but it was hot and it was filling.”

“At times, there’s nothing better.” Napoleon stood and crossed the room, humming along with a carol that was playing on the radio.

“You know the words?”

“I do, but you can’t help it. You grow up with them and whether you believe or not, they are part of you.”  He uncorked the port and filled two small snifters.  “You will, too, if you stay here long enough.”

Illya was quiet for a moment, then murmured, “I would like to stay… here. It is not the USSR, but --”

“It grows on you.” Napoleon sat and waited for Illya to join him.  “Warts and all, it’s home for both of us now.”

Illya was the one to toast this time. As he sat, he offered, “To homes, such as they are.

“And to the people who make them that.” Napoleon sipped and savored the taste.  Illya merely drank his.  “Careful, Peril, port can give you a nasty hangover.”  It didn’t stop Napoleon from refilling the glass.

“I am a Soviet. I do not get hangovers.”

“I’ll remember that in the morning. Speaking of such, usually you have to wait until Christmas morning for your gift, but since you won’t be here.” He grunted as he pushed himself off the couch and to the tree.  It took him a moment to find the present he wanted, then he carried the brightly wrapped gift back to the sofa.  “Here.  Merry Christmas.”

Illya hesitated for a moment. “What is it?”

“A gift.”

Illya made a face. “I know that.  I mean…”

“You’ll have to open it to find out.”

Illya waited just a second later and then slowly slid off the ribbon. Carefully, he began to unwrap the gift.  Napoleon finished his port and started on a second glass.  “We’ll be little old spies by the time you finish if you don’t get a move on.”  Then something occurred to him.  “Wait.  It’s your first gift, isn’t it?

“Certainly the first to be so beautifully wrapped. It would be a shame to tear the paper.”  He got it off in one piece and set it aside.  Opening the box, he took out the blue turtleneck, shaking the wrinkles from it.

“I know you are partial to them.”

“None of mine are this soft.” Illya stroked the material gently, the roughness of his fingertips catching the material.

“It’s cashmere. I saw it and thought Illya would look good in this color.” 

“Thank you. I will think of you when I wear it.”  Then Illya paused and looked at Napoleon.  “That is the first time you have called me by my given name.”

Napoleon smiled at that. “Well, it was probably the first time I started thinking of you as less of a coworker and more as a friend.”

“I fear that you will find my gift more utilitarian.” Illya moved quickly to the tree and grabbed a small box.  “And it is not wrapped as festively as yours.”  He offered it to his partner.

“I’ve had more practice.” Napoleon gauged the package, then, as carefully as Illya had, he unwrapped the package.  He opened the box and pulled out a firearm.  Automatically, he pulled back the barrel to make sure a round wasn’t chambered.

“It’s a Walther P-38. I overheard Waverly saying that they were going to be assigning them to us and I thought you would prefer one of your own.”

“It’s heavy.”

“But lighter than a Luger.” Illya unholstered his weapon and offered it in comparison. 

“You came to dinner armed?” Napoleon took the firearm, judged it against his and passed it back.  “You’re right, much lighter.  How does it shoot?”

“Only a fool isn’t these days.” Ilya tucked his weapon back away.  “Good.  It has good control and minimal kickback.”

“Good point. Thank you.  The next time it saves my life, I will think of you.”  

                                                                                *****

Napoleon woke slowly and opened his eyes cautiously.  The light in the room was dim, but it was enough to make the nerves in his temples throb. 

“What were we drinking?” His voice was gravely with sleep.

“No idea.  After the grappa, I lost track.”

Napoleon’s eyes widened and he rolled over.  Illya was stretched out beside him.   In bed.  His bed.

“What the hell?”  It took Napoleon a minute to remember.  Illya had been too drunk to drive.  Hell, he’d been too drunk to walk and he’d convinced the Russian to spend the night, but he thought he’d left Illya on the couch.  “My mouth feels like the men’s room at Grand Central Station.”

“Thank you for that visual.”  Illya draped an arm over his eyes.  “But if you are going to continue, please do it in a whisper.”

“I thought Russians didn’t get hangovers.”

“It’s a new American tradition.”

Napoleon smiled despite his pounding head and then he realized something else. He was naked beneath the sheet.  Another memory came back.  A shy kiss stolen beneath the mistletoe had led to some very satisfying grappling beneath the sheets.  He sighed at that memory.

Illya looked at the sheet’s tent that Napoleon’s hard on had erected. “Based on visual evidence, I would say that you are remembering last night?”

Napoleon looked and smiled. “Yes, but it’s only wishful thinking on its part.  The rest of me would argue the point.  You stayed.  Here with me.”

“Yes, your bed is far more comfortable than the couch and your company is a marked improvement over the tree.”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Trusting me. It says a lot as a man is at his most vulnerable when he’s sleeping.  The fact that you trust me enough to stay here.”

“You are my partner,” Illya said, simply. “And my friend.  Where else would I be safer?” 

“Let me get about three hours more sleep and we’ll see how safe I make you feel.”

“Four, and you have a deal, Napoleon.”

As Napoleon nestled back against Illya, he smiled contentedly as Illya’s arm curled over him, pulling him even closer. Perhaps the Grinch was right.  Christmas wasn’t about what you could buy in a store.  Christmas was about so much more.


End file.
